


The Lord of Tadfield Manor

by CousinSerena



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Regency, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Good AUmens AU Festival, M/M, Mutual Pining, Period-Typical Homophobia, Regency Romance, sad wanking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:54:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24888727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CousinSerena/pseuds/CousinSerena
Summary: Brooding Lord Anthony Crowley must find a wealthy wife or risk financial ruin. But then, the rakish Baron finds love and passion where he least expects it, and it is not with his intended bride-to-be. Now that he has found his heart, will he have the courage to follow it?
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Beelzebub/Gabriel (Good Omens)
Comments: 87
Kudos: 134
Collections: Good AUmens AU Fest





	1. The Baron and the Bookseller

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to [TawnyOwl95](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TawnyOwl95/pseuds/TawnyOwl95) for being such a fantastic beta, and thanks to [redundant_angel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redundant_angel/pseuds/redundant_angel) for the beautiful cover art for this fic. You can find both their wonderful fics for the Good AUmens fest on their pages.
> 
> I tried to portray the Regency era as accurately as possible. Please forgive any anachronisms, there is so much research one can do on this time period! Hope you enjoy!

  
  


* * *

June, 1816

London  
The Crowley’s Mayfair residence

“I absolutely refuse. Auntie, we’ve had this discussion endless times now and my position on the matter has not changed.” Lord Anthony Crowley stomped over to his favorite overstuffed armchair by the fire and fell into it, limbs extended to each of the four corners. 

“Nephew, you are behaving like a child. And must you sit as though someone has murdered you and flung your lifeless corpse into your best chair?”

Lord Crowley sighed and did his best to straighten himself. Although he was a grown man and stood nearly a foot taller than his aunt, the Right Hon. Miss Beatrice Crowley (Bea, as she was more affectionately known), was a formidable woman. She fixed her black eyes upon Crowley now and straightened herself to her diminutive full height.

“Anthony, I realize matrimony is not something you desire, as you’ve made quite clear on numerous occasions. But you have a duty to this family. You know very well what will happen to our family estate if there is no heir.”

“Well, if I’m the last of the line and I die, none of us will care, will we?”

His jest did not win his aunt over. She continued to glower. She wore a dark day dress and her hat, festooned with two great black feathers jutting out like antennae, gave her the appearance of a housefly. 

“Auntie, I think I’ll need a drink if we’re to continue this conversation.” Crowley sauntered over to the old mahogany cabinet to pour himself a brandy. 

“I shall have a sherry, nephew.”

Crowley got the drink for his aunt. Normally they would have rung for a servant, but the household had let most of the staff go little by little over time, as the family funds dwindled. Their few remaining servants, save Eric and the maid, had remained at Tadfield Manor to keep up the estate while Crowley, Newton and his aunt were in London for the Season.

He regarded his aunt with a slight smirk as he raised the glass to his lips. Bea, for all her haughtiness, was about the same age as Crowley. She was fifteen years younger than her brother, Lord Anthony Crowley Sr. Bea’s brother married happily, but his wife Lily had died when Crowley was just a child, leaving the boy motherless. Bea had never married and so came to live with them. 

She had been a good companion to his father and ran the household efficiently, and in return she had a home, companionship and a purpose. When Crowley was nearing twenty, his young cousin Newton, from his mother’s side of the family, had come to live with them as well. Together they were a patchwork family of sorts, with Bea taking charge of the household. 

She commanded a staff of servants and entertained regular visitors, friends of his father’s that would come to the country estate to hunt and enjoy the elder Lord Crowley’s hospitality. Bea had been fond of saying that running the household was like trying to run the forces of Hell itself. When Crowley’s father died, Bea went on caring for the two boys though Crowley was an eligible bachelor by then. She still enjoyed the role of Family Matriarch far too much, though her domain was a small one.

Beatrice seated herself across from her nephew, her black eyes never wavering from his face. This time she was the one to heave a great long-suffering sigh. She adored her impossible nephew, and in a different life they might have been friends, as they were only a few years apart. Nevertheless, she had to step up and assert her role with him. 

She took the drink he handed her, and her gaze softened slightly.  
“Anthony,” said Beatrice, “this is important. I’d almost hoped, several years ago when you came so close--”

“Please, Bea, don’t.” Crowley held a hand up. He wanted to erase that time in his life from his memory. “Yes, I know. I was engaged. It was a bad idea then and it’s a bad idea now. It will end in nothing but misery and ruin, just as it did before.”

“It didn’t have to, you know,” his aunt chided. “You could have kept your natural...proclivities from your fiancee. Once your duty was done to provide an heir, you could have carried on discreetly.”

Crowley’s expression darkened. “I am not simply a stud for siring offspring with a chosen pedigree broodmare. And I have kept my _proclivities_ , as you call them, so discreet they are nonexistent. I’ve lived like a damned monk.” He drained half his glass in one gulp. “Do forgive the profanity, auntie.”

“Don’t be an arse, Anthony,” she retorted. “You know very well I do not care what you get up to in private. But unfortunately, no matter how I tried to manage the funds, the fact remains that my brother did not leave you with sufficient funds to carry on for a lifetime. We are living like paupers. I do not wish to forfeit our estate.”

“Estate? You speak as if Tadfield Manor were a great castle and not a drafty old country house.” There was no bite to his words, however. In truth, he did not want to lose the home of his childhood. It was his retreat and his comfort. 

Bea ignored him. “If you do not wish to be forced to flee to the continent or Heaven forbid, _America_ , and die cold and alone in a foreign land, an advantageous marriage is your-- _our_ \--only assurance. The Season is well under way, and you’ve attended precisely one ball at Almack’s for which I exerted much effort procuring--”

“Yes, yes, pulling strings tirelessly to spend a dull evening drinking weak punch and being pursued by some silly little chit. And as for dying cold in my declining years, I shall undoubtedly die young due to my lifetime of debauchery. And I’m sure where I’m going it will be quite warm.”

Bea shook her head in exasperation. “You have always had a flair for the dramatic, Anthony. This is not a jest. And if you will not consider your own future, you might consider mine as well as your young cousin. Newton is not off to the best start and we have a duty to the memory of your dear mother’s family to see to his success.”

Crowley could see that this was not a battle he would win. He sighed, tired of fighting against his aunt and his family obligations. “Just what exactly are you conjuring up, Bea?”

“As it happens, I have paid a call upon Mrs. Lucretia Device. Her daughter Anathema is a most charming young woman, if perhaps, as I have heard, a bit too devoted to the reading of novels.” 

“A bluestocking, is it? Device, Device, where have I heard that name? Oh, I recall now. _I haven’t_ ,” he nearly growled. 

“Be that as it may, they are quite a respectable family. Gentry, landowners, and financially successful. Such a match would save our estate, Anthony. And in return, Miss Device would gain a title. As it happens, I’ve procured an invitation to a party tomorrow evening at the Device’s residence here in Mayfair.”

“Well, why bother with a dull evening of punch and dancing, Bea? You have the situation worked out. Why not draw up the marriage agreement right now?” He waved his arm about, almost sloshing the remainder of his brandy from the glass. He knew he was raising his voice and that Bea would dig her heels in even further.

“Nephew, I have said all there is to say about the matter. I have a social call to make, and I will return in time for dinner. You are going to this affair tomorrow night if I have to pull you along by the ear like an errant schoolboy. And don’t you dare smash another of our good glasses in a huff. I can see you’ve a mind to it.” She glanced pointedly at his clenched hands.

Bea strode briskly out into the hall in a huff, not seeing young Newton who had stayed hidden behind an enormous potted plant outside the salon door. He had heard everything. Now, he backed away silently, heart pounding, and crept back down the hall. Then after making sure Bea and the servants didn’t see him, he ran out the front door and raced off to Soho on foot.

He did not hear the smashing of the brandy glass against the wall, or the curse that accompanied it.

* * *

A.Z. Fell’s Fine Books, Soho  
  


Miss Anathema Device scurried to the front door of A.Z. Fell’s Fine Books, Aziraphale Zachariah Fell, proprietor, having informed her mother she was shopping for hair ribbons at the Soho Bazaar. 

Lucretia Device would go into hysterics if she thought her daughter was frequenting a bookshop, especially one known to be a favourite of the bluestocking set. Mr. Fell hosted intellectual discussions in which both sexes were invited. Anathema suspected a few of the regulars came out of an infatuation with Mr. Fell’s sky blue eyes, blond curls and sweet smile. He never questioned the propriety of a single young lady wanting to spend time in his bookshop discussing the latest novel or current events. 

His establishment was nowhere near as renowned as Hatchards in Piccadilly, but it had become a heavenly retreat for Anathema, away from the stifling atmosphere of her own parlor, of needlework, obligatory social calls and practicing her dance steps for the next ball. Privately, she considered Mr. Fell her best friend.

“Have you acquired Lady Caroline Lamb’s novel yet?” asked Anathema breathlessly as she entered the shop, ignoring the Closed sign.

Aziraphale had just finished cataloguing his latest acquisitions and was now pouring up the afternoon tea. He’d managed to tuck a small table and chairs into a nook of his shop where he kept a small stove and cupboard. He set out two plates, one for himself and one for his regular Wednesday afternoon visitor.

“Good afternoon to you too, Ana. You’re referring to _Glenarvon_ , I presume? Of course I have it. What sort of bookseller would I be if I failed to acquire the latest melodramatic, thinly disguised kiss-and-tell tome?” He pursed his lips, attempting an expression of disapproval. “Wouldn’t you rather read this fascinating treatise on Scottish episcopacy?”

“No, I really would not.” They shared a little laugh as she took a seat and Mr. Fell poured her tea. It was the first genuine laugh she’d enjoyed all week. As always, there was a lovely plate of tiny cakes and sandwiches set out. She took a cucumber sandwich.

Aziraphale regarded her fondly. “How have you been, my dear? Coping with the social rounds and parties? I hope your mother hasn’t been throwing herself too aggressively into the role of matchmaker.”

Anathema grimaced, having eaten her sandwich indelicately in two bites. “Yesterday mother called upon some mysterious family and invited them to our party. Apparently there’s a Lord Somebody-or-Other. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

Suddenly the bell over the door jangled loudly as the shop door opened abruptly and then closed again. “Good Lord,” Aziraphale muttered. "I’ve forgotten to lock the door. Apparently my Closed sign is being taken as a mere suggestion.”

Anathema smiled. Mr. Fell did hate to have his tea interrupted. Then she gasped as a young man came into view. His dark hair was mussed, and his normally sweetly befuddled expression was now one of near panic.

“Newt?” “Mr. Pulsifer?” She and Aziraphale spoke at the same time.

“Afternoon, Mr. Fell,” he managed as he caught his breath. “Ana, this is a disaster. There’s nothing for it. We must run off together!”

Anathema ran to him and he embraced her. “What in Heaven’s name are you talking about?”

Aziraphale rose, locking the door and drawing the drapes, resigning himself to leaving the shop closed a bit longer than he’d planned. He looked the distraught young man over. 

“Steady now, Newton. Why don’t we sit over tea, the three of us, and I shall see what I can do to help. What’s all this about a disaster, then?”

“You’d be an angel for certain, Mr. Fell, if you _could_ help. It’s my guardian, you see. He’s going to marry my Ana!”


	2. An Imposter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Anathema enact their plan to thwart Lord Crowley’s attempts to court Ana at the dance. But even the best laid plans may go awry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this update took so long. Unfortunately the timing of future updates may be sporadic, due to work and other real life issues. But rest assured, I never abandon a fic!
> 
> Thanks once again to [TawnyOwl95](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TawnyOwl95/pseuds/TawnyOwl95) for being such a fabulous beta

By the time the carriage had arrived at the Device’s impressive Mayfair residence, which they had rented for the Season, the worst of Crowley’s hangover had thankfully gone. His headache had subsided from pounding misery to a dull ache. Bea sat opposite him and had glared at him in stony silence for most of the short ride. She had arrived home yesterday expecting to dine with Crowley, but he had gone off “carousing shamelessly with those bracket-faced toss pots,” as Bea had put it. 

And so he had. After their dismal conversation, he’d had to blow off some steam. If he sometimes liked to visit a particular tavern when in town, and if he’d made friends with the owners, what was that to anyone? Messrs. Ligur and Hastor ran The Brimstone, a more respectable establishment than most. It was a place to drink, smoke and play cards, and nothing more. If it especially catered to confirmed bachelors, so be it. Some might call it a molly house but it was not. Hastor and Ligur might not be upstanding examples of refined society, but Crowley envied the two of them. How could he not? They were free, and did not have to pretend to be anything than what they were. 

They arrived at the party and took in their surroundings. The door between the drawing room and the adjacent room had been opened to make a spacious area for dancing, and the room was filled with members of the _ton_ and the gentry. Hired musicians played a light airy tune, and the atmosphere was lively. 

Crowley wished he could have kept his sun spectacles on to hide his undoubtedly bloodshot amber eyes, but propriety forbade it. Not that he cared for propriety so much, but he did not want to suffer another scolding from his aunt. He had pushed her good humour far enough. 

A wave of resentment washed over Crowley as the ridiculousness of his situation suddenly struck him. Damn it all, he was a grown man fearing a scolding from his auntie. And being forced to pursue silly young women as if he were a young buck of 21, and not into his late thirties.

If only he could have feigned illness, as young Newt had done, to beg off having to attend. But nothing short of typhoid or apoplexy would have done. Not when he was in the market for a wife. 

Crowley groaned inwardly as their hostess, Mrs. Device, who scurried over and began gushing. 

“Ah, Lord Crowley, Miss Crowley, how good of you to accept our invitation at such late notice. Most irregular, I know, and it was not for want of your presence in any way, you may be greatly assured of that!” Mrs. Device fawned over them, complimenting Bea on her dress and, with a wink at Bea, telling Crowley how excited her daughter would be to meet him.

Crowley attempted to ignore her prattling until, alarmingly, the woman felt the need to make introductions around the room. He sighed and wished for a drink as he allowed himself to be led off with his aunt.

⚜⚜⚜

Anathema looked charming in a cream colored gown embroidered with tiny flowers, and green satin hair ribbons. The effect would have been perfection had her expression not betrayed her anxiety over the evening to come.

Good evening, Miss Device,” said Aziraphale, managing a nervous little smile, bowing for appearance’s sake. He tugged at his cravat. This whole hare brained scheme might go horribly wrong at any moment. Why had he suggested this preposterous idea of masquerading as Gabriel at the Device’s party? His purpose was to ensure that Lord Crowley did not dance with Anathema more than twice, preferably not more than once, and provide a distraction so that any attempts at a serious courtship would fail. 

How exactly he was going to go about doing that, he had very little idea. Anathema had assured him that nobody at the ball would know what Gabriel looked like, but Aziraphale was not so confident.

“I’d much rather invite you under your own name, Mr. Fell, but I’m afraid, well….” She had trailed off awkwardly, not wanting to offend her friend. 

“I understand, my dear,” he’d replied. “A bookseller would not be invited to a ball. It’s quite all right.”

And so he had agreed to the deception. She’d arranged for a trusted servant to deliver her mother’s invitation to “the younger brother’s shop.” 

Now he was involved in two deceits involving his brothers, one being his ruse this evening, posing as Gabriel. Then there was the matter with young Newton. The boy was meant to be studying under Sandalphon for the summer in preparation for a future as a clergyman. Yet he had failed miserably as a vicar’s assistant and after breaking yet another statue, Sandalphon had ordered his services to come to an immediate end. Terrified of how his guardian and aunt would react to his failure, Aziraphale had been allowing the lad to spend his days at the bookshop. He wrote regular progress notes in Sandalphon’s hand, reporting to Lord and Miss Crowley that Newton was coming along nicely and would make a fine clergyman one day. It was at the shop that he and Ana had met.

“Mr. Fell,” Ana replied, with a little curtsy, keeping up appearances. On seeing Aziraphale’s fidgety hands and expression, she added in a lower voice, “don’t look so nervous. Everything will be fine. Just dance with me so that I don’t receive a marriage proposal by the end of the evening.”

“I shall try my best, my dear, but I do feel quite out of my element.” He felt faintly ridiculous in his best breeches, stockings and polished shoes, and he had the devil of a time with his cravat. He normally wore his plain linen shirt and boots whilst working in his shop.

“You know this is quite ironic,” remarked Aziraphale. “My brother would be thrilled were I here as myself. He sees us as a match, though I very much doubt your mother would agree.”

Gabriel, in fact, had come round to the bookshop on occasion when Anathema had been there--at which times Newt ran to hide in the back of the shop--and several times now he had hinted that Aziraphale should consider formally courting her. Aziraphale considered this idea to be like courting a little sister. Absurd.

“You wouldn’t have to rely on your merchant’s wages, little brother. Her family is wealthy.” Gabriel always managed to emphasize the word _merchant_ as if it were distasteful. Aziraphale knew he was a bit of an embarrassment to him, with his bookshop. At least the middle brother, Sandalphon, as a vicar, was in a respectable occupation.

“Anyone would be lucky to have you, Mr. Fell,” said Anathema. “But, I’m afraid I only have eyes for my dear, clumsy, wonderful Newt,” she added with a smile. Clearly she was wishing her young man could be there.

Anathema looked past Aziraphale and her smile faltered.

“Ah, I see my intended fiance has arrived.” She nodded in the direction of her mother, who gleefully ushered a tall red haired gentleman and a shorter lady in a turban toward them.

  
⚜⚜⚜  
  


Mrs. Device led the Crowleys over to the pair. Did Crowley imagine it, or were the young lady and her companion looking at him with apprehension?

 _Anathema_ , Crowley thought, _what a peculiar name_. She was pretty enough, with her dark hair and eyes, which were framed with a delicate pair of rimless spectacles. 

But the man standing next to her was stunning. He appeared closer to Crowley’s own age rather than hers. His blond hair was so light it was almost white, so that it almost looked like a halo around his head. Crowley could tell even under his evening clothes that he was well-muscled, and he had the bearing of a gentleman. Yet his expression held a softness, an innocence that Crowley himself had long lost. 

He gulped, and pulled himself together. He was here to meet and pretend to be infatuated with Miss Device, after all.

“Daughter,” enthused Mrs. Device, “This is Lord Anthony Crowley. He is Baron of Tadfield, my dear. And this is his aunt, Miss Beatrice Crowley.”

The ladies curtsied, Crowley bowed, and introductions were made.

“Gabriel Fell. A pleasure to meet you, sir,” said Aziraphale with a smile and a little bow, hoping his nerves didn’t show. 

“Anthony Crowley, the pleasure is mine,” Crowley answered stiffly with a slight nod. 

“Fell, you say?” Bea piped up. “Are you by chance the elder brother of Mr. Sandalphon Fell? Why, our young cousin Newton is assisting him at the vicarage! We are hoping if he fares well he will consider the Church after he finishes Oxford. He is home for the summer now. Surely you’ve met him?”

“Ah, oh,” Aziraphale fumbled, flushing. “Newton? No, we’ve never met. I don’t know the young man, I’m afraid. I’ve heard from my younger brother that he’s doing quite well, however. Yes, I hear nothing but praise on that account.” He glanced at Ana, who nodded almost imperceptibly and smiled.

Two things struck Aziraphale instantly about Lord Crowley. First, he wore an expression of boredom and disdain, his mouth set in a straight line. The only expression on his face was an arch of the eyebrow at Aziraphale’s own discomfiture just now.

Second, the man was exceedingly handsome. His eyes were an intriguing amber in color, and his hair was a striking deep copper. Aziraphale thought how beautiful his face would be if he were to allow a smile to grace it.

Aziraphale changed the subject abruptly, discussing the weather and remarking on the elegance of the Device’s home. Thankfully, the musicians struck up a lively reel and saved him from further flustered babbling. 

At that point Crowley forced himself to take a breath and perform his duty. “Miss Device, may I have the pleasure of this dance?” 

“Oh,” she sweetly demurred, “I am most honored, Lord Crowley, but I’m afraid I have already promised this dance to Mr. Fell.” 

Crowley was stunned. He really should have felt relieved, but he felt only irritation at being out maneuvered. He was not going to be thwarted by some golden haired upstart. 

He watched Fell lead Anathema to the floor, seething with resentment over his rejection. Yet as the bright music played and he watched Fell dance with Anathema, his anger slowly dissipated. 

He was struck not only by the man’s ease of movement but his obvious enjoyment of the music. He floated with such grace, as if the music itself carried him along. He positively beamed, his blue eyes alight with the joy of the dance. When Miss Device said something that obviously amused him, the resulting smile fairly lit the room, outshining even the abundance of wax candles set about. He was near frozen to the spot. It struck him that he had never seen such a beautiful man before. 

And then he was surprised to find his eyes stinging. He was not allowed to consider such things. He was only allowed to think of the young woman and the necessity of courtship. 

“She is attractive, is she not?” 

Crowley nearly jumped. He had not been aware that his aunt had appeared by his side. He felt himself going hot. Did she suspect he had been staring not at the young lady, but at the dazzling man next to her?

“Yes, yes, quite,” he snapped. “Attractive enough.” Damnable woman, hovering and buzzing about him like a persistent fly.

“This is the first of many dances tonight,” said Bea. “Do not be chicken-hearted, nephew. I expect to see you and Miss Device soon twirling about the floor soon.” 

Bea looked imperious tonight in her deep purple gown and matching turban with ostrich feathers. It should look absurd, but it somehow suited her. Crowley suspected the feathers were an attempt at adding to her height. 

“I shall most certainly ask her for the next dance,” he said with gritted teeth. “Though she seems to have a most eager suitor as it is. By the way, Auntie,” he continued, “I see Mrs. Mary Lockley just over near the punchbowl, along with a few of your other loquacious friends. Why not go and join the other _matrons_?” 

“Ungrateful brat,” she hissed as she swirled her skirts and swept off to join the other ladies. 

“Tiresome baggage,” he muttered under his breath, but his mouth twitched in the barest of smiles despite his mood. 

The dance ended at last. Everyone clapped, and the dancers, glowing after their endeavors, went back to mingling or having a bit of punch. Annoyingly, this Mr. Fell seemed stuck to Miss Device like glue. 

Fortunately, the man seemed to have a fondness for punch and small refreshments. It was when Fell made his way to the food and drink that Crowley was able to hastily maneuver over to Miss Device and ask for the next dance. 

She agreed, though not with enthusiasm, he noted. But then, if the handsome Mr. Fell was intent on courting her, why would she be eager to dance with him? Baron or no, she undoubtedly had heard of his lack of fortune and his tarnished reputation.

It was an infectious tune, and some of the older couples and gentlemen watched as the six couples danced. Crowley was most definitely not feeling up to a lively jig. But the die was cast and he would have to make the best of it. He bowed, Miss Device curtsied, and the dance began. His feet moved, though with little enthusiasm. He hated being watched as he danced. Dancing was supposed to be a joyous thing and yet he felt like a puppet, obliged to go through the motions while others in the assembly watched and critiqued. His position in life meant that every move he made could be fodder for gossiping biddies.

He racked his brains to think of anything to say to the young lady across from him. She looked nearly as unhappy as he did. She smiled graciously but her smile did not quite reach her eyes. Finally, she spoke.

“Well, Lord Crowley, I’m so glad you’ve honored us with your presence tonight,” she said as they danced. _Did he detect a note of sarcasm?_

“I am glad to hear you say it, Miss Device. My aunt Beatrice was most enthused that your mother was so kind to extend an invitation.” 

“ _Just_ your aunt? And were you not enthused?”

“I cannot claim to be an enthusiast of either dance or parties,” he hedged. “My aunt is most persuasive, however.”

“Well, now as you are here, I hope the affair shall prove tolerable to you.”

He made some sort of bland reply and they danced the rest of the tune in silence.

He was just about to open his mouth to make some sort inane remark, to ease the tension, when at last the music stopped and the dance ended.

It was then that he caught bits of conversation from the gaggle of ladies nearby, Bea amongst them now. 

It was the garrulous Mrs. Lockley who spoke. He could hear the woman clearly, as undoubtedly half the room could, since she seemed so delighted with her own conversation that she took no care to whisper. 

There was gossipy delight in her voice. “...I’ve _seen_ Mr. Gabriel Fell. No, I tell you upon my soul, this is the younger brother… yes, a _merchant,_ can you believe it? A bookseller, of all things.” 

Miss Device had been remarking on the dance, but Crowley was not listening. Rather, he was riveted by the ladies’ gossip. He cast his eyes on Fell, who was still lingering near the punch bowl and was obviously close enough to hear everything. Crowley noted with amusement that Fell turned to look at the women, his blue eyes widening in an expression of horror as it registered they were discussing _him_. 

_Well, well,_ thought Crowley. _An imposter. Fascinating._

“But my dear, I thought you knew,” Mrs. Lockley continued, turning to Beatrice. “After all, your young ward, what is his name? Nigel? Nelson?”

“Newton,” he overheard his aunt’s terse reply. 

“Yes, _Newton_ ,” she said. “Why, he is apprenticing there, is he not? At Fell’s Books? He is there most every day. Oh yes, my dear, I quite thought you knew. Mr. Lockley and I frequent that street often, as there is the most delightful shop nearby…”

The woman continued chattering, but for Crowley, time seemed to freeze for a moment. He exchanged consternated glances with Bea. He absorbed the shock of hearing that his ward had been deceiving both him and Bea by spending his days loafing about a bookshop, and that the man introduced to him as Gabriel Fell was an imposter. So the man was harboring his errant ward at his bookshop, of all things. But why? And most importantly, why did he come here pretending to be his older brother? Crowley did not enjoy being made a fool of. 

Crowley watched with a mixture of anger and amusement as he caught Fell’s eye and smirked. He saw comprehension dawn on Fell’s face as he noticed Crowley, Anathema, his aunt and two other ladies all staring at him, aghast. The man froze in terror for just a moment, then fairly fled from the room, in a most dramatic manner, not to be seen again that evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Regency period in England was of course a dangerous time for LGBT individuals, as one would guess. I wanted to acknowledge the difficulties our boys would have faced back then, without taking away from the tone of a Regency romp.


	3. Too Many Fells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fells and the Crowleys make apologies over tea. Newt is still a disaster, and things heat up at the bookshop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, so sorry for the lengthy wait. And thanks once again to [TawnyOwl95](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TawnyOwl95/pseuds/TawnyOwl95) for being such a great beta!

Crowley was sorely tempted to keep his sun spectacles on, propriety be damned. The afternoon sun streamed into the sitting room, illuminating the gloomy spectacle which even the cheery tea set and assortment of biscuits failed to save. There perched Bea, tight-faced as ever, with a terrified looking Newt sitting between Bea and himself. Opposite them were Gabriel Fell and the Rev. Sandalphon Fell, the tea service on the little table in between the two families. The youngest Fell brother, the cause of much of the mischief, was notably absent.

After the horrific end to the Device’s private ball, and learning of both Newt’s and the youngest Fell brother’s deceptions, Bea had insisted they invite the Fells over to tea to smooth things over. For once he and Bea were united in their anger at Newt, his incompetence and deception having embarrassed them both. Apparently he had failed at his duties at the vicarage, and then found an unlikely refuge in A.Z. Fell’s Books where he went daily, still pretending that he was actually at the vicarage assisting Reverend Sandalphon Fell. Crowley sat uncomfortably, resisting the urge to loosen his cravat. It was warm and stuffy, and the air was thick with tension even as they made small talk and drank their tea. 

As far as the two older Fell brothers, Crowley had never seen siblings who looked so little like each other. Gabriel Fell was dark haired and his eyes were more violet than blue. His deep lavender cravat matched his eyes almost perfectly, and Crowley suspected the choice had been deliberate. Though not a dandy, Gabriel Fell looked the sort of man who paid great attention to his appearance.

Sandalphon, the middle brother, looked like neither of his siblings, with a short, squat sort of physique and having suffered much loss of hair already. Crowley thought his face looked devoid of any capacity for humor, though perhaps he and Sandalphon shared that particular trait. Crowley only ever laughed when he was visiting his friends at the Brimstone.

Continuing the pleasantries, Bea coughed delicately then turned to Gabriel, the eldest Fell brother. She chose to open the conversation in a roundabout manner before entering into the embarrassing topic of Newt.

“I paid a call on Mrs. Lucretia Device earlier today,” began Bea, “and I believe she was most pleased to see me. Anthony and her daughter danced twice at the delightful ball given at their residence. They danced both before and after dinner, indeed finishing off dancing the Roger de Coverley *****.”

Crowley cringed. Why the devil would Gabriel Fell care about a dance he did not attend? Moreover, this last bit of conversation was utter shite. He and Miss Device had endured stilted dinner conversation, and they had gone through the motions of the dance with sour expressions on their faces, the young lady obviously wishing her other suitor had not fled.

“That is a merry tune,” commented Gabriel, smiling indulgently at Bea. “And did you dance as well, Miss Crowley?”

She was taken aback for just a moment and then—perhaps Crowley imagined it, but her cheeks pinkened and he could have sworn she actually _batted her eyelashes_ at the man. Crowley snapped his jaw closed, realizing his mouth had been hanging open.

“Oh, no. I’m afraid I confined myself to the conversations with other _matrons_ , as my nephew put it.” She threw a withering look his way. 

“Matrons?” Gabriel chuckled. “Miss Crowley, I hope I am not too forward in saying that the bloom of youthful beauty is still upon you. You should be dancing, not sitting with the old gossips. Indeed, if I may be so bold, I deeply regret I attended the ball in name only, as it were.” For a moment, Crowley was afraid the man was going to _wink_ at his aunt. Instead, he flashed a brilliant smile at Bea, and her blush deepened at the flattery. If he weren’t so nauseous Crowley would have laughed. He’d never seen anyone manage to fluster his aunt. As it was, he barely managed to suppress a smirk. 

“Oh, why, I am most flattered, Mr. Fell,” she replied, then tossing a glare at her nephew. “Yet, in a sense it was fortunate that I spent my time thus, since I was able to hear the truth of what my errant young ward has been up to.”

“Half the room heard it,” groused Crowley. “That cackling old hen Mary Lockley—she should be called Mary Loquacious.”

“Nephew!” 

“Well, it’s true. Still, I suppose it’s fortunate that all this is out in the open,” he said. “Now the whole messy business needs to be sorted. Newt still has some explaining to do.” 

“Yes,” agreed Bea, “We must extend our apologies for the actions of our young cousin Newton.” She threw a baleful look at a red-faced Newt, who was studying his fingernails at the moment. “To fail at his tasks at the vicarage is shameful enough, and then to practice such deceit as to pretend he’s still employed!”

“Indeed,” muttered Crowley. He could hardly blame the boy for not wishing to report his being sacked by a clergyman, but making fools of them all rankled him to the core. Bad enough that Crowely himself was thought a scoundrel by many of his peers, but to also be seen as too incompetent to manage his own household...

All eyes were on Newt now. Crowley regarded him with some sympathy. He looked as if he might be sick. Still, it was necessary to question the boy.

“Well,” he began sternly, ”and what do you have to say for yourself? How did you even come to end up hiding each day at the bookshop? And, a shop owned by the Reverend’s brother? It can hardly have been a coincidence.” 

Newt gulped visibly. Beads of sweat had gathered on his face. “Well, you see, the Reverend here mentioned his younger brother having a bookshop. And I like books, so I went one day. And Mr. Fell, he was so kind, he said that….er, well...” He kept his eyes trained on his hands, which were fidgeting in his lap.

“Go on, boy. Explain,” said Bea.

“Well, Mr. Fell said that if the situation did not turn out well, I could help him at his shop each day.” 

“Is that all?” Crowley prodded.

Newt managed a vigorous nod. “Yes.” 

“Lord Crowley, Miss Crowley,” said Gabriel. He leaned forward, nodding to Bea. “The fault is entirely with myself. As the eldest, I should have been more watchful of my little brother. He is overly soft hearted, I’m afraid, and prone to aiding those in distress. I should have consulted with Sandalphon and taken over the matter myself.” At this, Gabriel glanced at his sibling.

“Yes. Well. As it is, madam, Gabriel has persuaded me to give the boy another chance.” Sandalphon smiled insincerely, as if he were wavering between congeniality and indigestion. The effect was frightening. No wonder Newt looked as if he might bolt at any moment.

“That is most generous of you, Reverend Fell,” said Bea. “Still, Newton wishes to apologize.” She turned her black eyes on the boy, who offered mumbled apologies. 

“If I may, Lord Crowley?” Sandalphon smiled in an oily manner that struck Crowley as ingratiating yet insolent at the same time. The effect only reinforced Crowley's dislike of the man. “The young man may not be ideally suited for the clergy. Though his attitude was congenial, I am afraid he lacks the temperament for the job. Still, forgiveness is divine and so I must allow him to attempt to redeem himself, if you so desire. Oh,” he added, ”and do not concern yourself with the broken picture frame of the Virgin and Child, of course.”

“Broken _what_?” 

“Oh mercy, I suppose Master Pulsifer has not told you of the few little items that were damaged in the wake of his employ. Well, never mind, they are trifles. The painting--though it was only the frame which suffered permanent damage, and then a small statue of Mary, a communion plate…”

Crowley pinched the bridge of his nose. Confound it, he wished he were at the Brimstone this very moment and not enduring this tea time purgatory. 

“Of course we shall make good on replacing any damaged items,” said Crowley wearily.

Sandalphon and Gabriel thanked him, making much of his generosity, and then the conversation turned to the other matter at hand.

Gabriel spoke. “I must apologize once more for the actions of my younger brother, and it is unconscionable that he did not come here today. Apparently he was taken suddenly ill.” Gabriel lifted an eyebrow as he said this, and Sandalphon snorted derisively. “I cannot tell you how embarrassed I am. To have Aziraphale _impersonating_ me is outrageous.”

“There is no need for you to apologize, Mr. Fell,” said Bea. “But pray, what was the _purpose_ of his deception? I simply cannot fathom it.”

Newt looked immeasurably relieved at the change of subject, while Gabriel Fell cringed visibly. “Well,” he said, “apparently he was trying to thwart Lord Crowley.”

“Thwart? In what way?” Crowley asked incredulously.

“This is most uncomfortable, Lord Crowley. But he said he was attempting to keep you from pursuing Miss Device.”

“He _what?_ ” said Crowley, incredulous. 

Newt grew pale. _Anathema_. Ridiculously, he worried that everyone in the room would know their secret. He knew Mr. Aziraphale would never knowingly give him and Ana away, but what if he’d let something slip to Gabriel? Newt hoped he didn’t further embarrass himself by being sick in front of Reverend and Mr. Fell. 

Bea turned her attention back to Gabriel. “Whyever would your brother interfere in such a thing?”

“My dear Miss Crowley, once again I must apologize. I’m afraid that, not knowing Lord Crowley’s interest in Miss Device’s affections, I had encouraged my brother to pursue a courtship with the young lady. She frequents his little bookshop quite often.”

“Does she really?” exclaimed Bea. “Well, Mrs. Device _has_ admitted to her daughter’s fondness for the reading of novels.”

“I beg your pardon,” Newt said. “But I must fetch some water. I feel unwell.” 

And he _was_ beginning to feel ill. His nerves tended to go to his stomach. Now everyone knew both Anathema and himself frequented the bookshop. What if they made the connection and learned the truth of their love for one another? 

“Newton, whatever is the matter?” asked Bea.

Newt’s eyes widened. “Nothing! Nothing at all! I just...need a bit of air,” he managed as he half stumbled out of the room.

“Well,” said Crowley. “That was...something.”

Everyone finished their tea and partook of the last of the refreshments, attempting to keep the conversation light by remarking on the warmth of the afternoon. A minute or two later, their manservant Eric appeared, though he had not been rung for. He made his way to Crowley’s side. “Excuse me for the interruption, but might I have a word with your Lordship? Privately?”

Crowley excused himself and stepped into the hall with the servant.

“Excuse me m’Lord, but Master Newt has bolted,” said Eric in a loud whisper, containing his excitement at the drama. “He ran right out the front door just now.” Crowley narrowed his eyes. He had a feeling he knew where he’d run off to. Crowley had had just about enough of this nonsense.

“Thank you, Eric.” The servant bowed and scurried off, noting the darkened expression on his master’s face.

Bea raised her eyebrows at Crowley questioningly when he returned and took his seat.

Crowley announced to his visitors that Newton had retired to his room, having taken ill with an upset stomach.

Sandalphon nearly sneered. “Quite understandable. As the lad has retired for the day, I shall return to my duties at the vicarage. Thank you for the visit, Lord Crowley, Miss Crowley.” With a little bow, he left. Gabriel rose to leave as well, after thanking Crowley and Bea for their hospitality. 

“Lord Crowley, Miss Crowley, despite the awkward circumstances of our visit, I do hope this shan’t be the last.” He looked at Bea rather pointedly, bowed, and left.

Crowley suppressed a smirk and turned to Bea. “If you’ll excuse me as well, auntie, I have an errand to run. Newt apparently has run off, and I believe I know where. I need to retrieve my young cousin and have a little chat with the youngest Mr. Fell.”

“Anthony, do not do something rash that would jeopardize our good standing with the elder Fell brothers.”

“Bea, when have you known me to do anything rash? Besides, I think your concern lies with only _one_ of the brothers.” He imitated Gabriel’s deep bow.

She snorted. “What cheek. You are a hellion.” 

“And you are a meddlesome hen.” He bent down and gave her a peck on the cheek before taking his hat and his leave.

⚜️⚜️⚜️

_Meanwhile, at Fell’s Books_

Aziraphale startled as Newton Pulsifer ran into the shop, the bell over the door jangling loudly. As with his previous visit, Newt wore a frantic expression on his face. Aziraphale had been shelving his latest acquisitions, but set the stack of books on a table to see to his young friend.

“Newton, dear boy, you’re making a habit of bursting into my shop in distress. What can be the matter now? Are you not supposed to be with the Crowleys, owning up to your subterfuge?”

Newton huffed. “As you were supposed to do, Mr. Fell--begging your pardon,” he added with a little bow, remembering his place.

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale admitted sheepishly, “after being thoroughly dressed down by both my dear brothers, I felt I’d had quite enough. My apologies for abandoning you, dear boy.”

He brought Newt a small glass of sherry to calm his nerves.

“Mr. Fell, I don’t know what to do. This is like a nightmare that never ends. My guardian--Lord Crowley, that is--I cannot speak ill of him, but I believe I’ve mentioned he is a bit moody.”

Aziraphale smiled. “I have heard rumors of Lord Crowley and apparently moody is an understatement. Man of the town, with the devil’s own temper?” 

“Oh, you mustn’t believe all the rumors about him, Mr. Fell. I know what people whisper about him--that he jilted his fiancee, or that she ran off because of his lewd behavior and unnatural proclivities--I say, are you all right, Mr. Fell? You’ve gone pink.” 

Aziraphale had grown hot at the mention of unnatural proclivities. He could scarcely fault the Baron for that.

“Quite, fine. Continue, my boy.” He cleared his throat and smiled weakly.

“Well, and then of course his temper, as you’ve said. I’m sure you’ve heard the nickname. Instead of Baron of Tadfield--”

“The, er, Demon of Tadfield, yes,” Aziraphale acknowledged. He thought of the tall imperious baron with his red hair and amber eyes, and thought the description fitting.

“Well, he’s frightfully angry about my lying, and your helping me by letting me come here every day, and then Mr. Fell told them how you tried to stop him from courting Ana. You know, Aunt Beatrice is still wanting him to continue the courtship. But in addition to all that, I’m afraid they shall find out about Ana and me. Oh, everything is a disaster,” he moaned. “Please, Mr. Aziraphale, I know I’ve abused your hospitality tremendously, but--”

Newt’s gaze shifted to the window and his eyes grew wide. “Oh no!”

“Good Heavens, what is it now, dear boy?”

“It’s my guardian. I just glimpsed him outside the window! He hasn’t spotted me yet, thank God. Please, Mr. Aziraphale, please let me hide. Pretend you are stocking the shelves, I beg of you.” 

And without so much as a by-your-leave, Newt dashed into the stacks to hide amongst the bookshelves.

⚜️⚜️⚜️ 

By the time Crowley reached A.Z. Fell’s Fine Books,he had worked himself from a slow simmer to nearly boiling. How could one man cause such utter chaos in his wake? Meddling in his family affairs was bad enough, but he had made Crowley look impotent, as if he couldn’t keep track of his own ward. 

Play him for a fool, would he? Who did this book merchant think he was? _Zira_ , Mr. Fell had called him. What sort of name was that? Perhaps young Newt could not be blamed for trying to hide his transgressions, but this book merchant, a grown man knowingly aiding and helping the boy with his deceit--it was outrageous! And then he had the incredible gall to masquerade as his elder brother simply in order to interfere with Crowley’s courtship of Miss Device. 

It was entirely beside the point that he had no desire to marry Anathema except to secure her fortune. And by rights, he supposed he should be angrier with Bea than with this bookseller for pushing the match in the first place. But she was only trying to safeguard the family’s estate. At any rate, he had been thwarted, and somebody needed to learn his place. 

Crowley peered through the window for a moment before entering. There was the book merchant, with his back turned to him, shelving books. His attire was now more appropriate for a shopkeeper. He wore ordinary trousers and boots, and his white cotton shirt and waistcoat. His sleeves were rolled indecently up to his elbows, his attire hardly fit to greet the public, and it was then that Crowley noted the Closed sign. 

He stood at the window and watched him for just a little while, taking care to stay to the side where he wouldn’t be seen. Fell’s back was well muscled. And his backside, its definition revealed by the cling of the tight trousers currently in fashion, was on alluring display as well. Why did the man have to look like this? If only he were a toad, it would make Crowley’s job much easier. Still, as pretty as he was, this merchant had meddled in his affairs quite enough. Now, how to get in? Fell would undoubtedly refuse to open the door for him. 

He saw his chance when a pleasant looking older woman and her companion--perhaps her husband--stopped to peer into the window. Crowley rapped on the door firmly.

“Oh, I do believe the shop is closed now, sir,” said the husband.

Crowley grinned and tipped his hat. “Yes, but the shopkeep is a dear friend of mine, perhaps he’ll let me in.” He stepped to the side so that when Fell came to the window, all he saw was the lady and gentleman. As hoped, he opened the door to them.

“I’m terribly sorry, good people, but we are most definitely closed--oh!”

Crowley sprung into the doorway and fairly shoved his way in. “Old friend!” he said jovially, tipping his hat to the outraged looking couple on the street. Before Fell knew it, Crowley had made his way inside and closed the front door behind him. 

To Crowley’s satisfaction, Fell wore an expression of both astonishment and dismay. Still, he recovered himself quickly. 

“Aziraphale Zachariah Fell, at your service,” he said primly.

Crowley was thankful he still wore his sun spectacles, as he was having a difficult time taking his eyes off the man standing before him. He was meant to be seen as _angry_ , not infatuated, damn it all. 

In truth, he was both. The top bit of Fell’s shirt was undone, his throat and a bit of his upper chest provocatively exposed. His rolled sleeves revealed strong forearms dusted with white-blond hair. The thin cotton shirt did little to hide his sturdy build, and Crowley wondered what it would be like to have those strong arms around him. Still, he was not here to ogle the man, but to confront him. 

“Aziraphale. Interesting that all of you Fells are named for angels. Though you’re a bit of a bastard for an angel, if you ask me.”

“You might at least have the courtesy to remove those spectacles if you are going to insult me,” Fell huffed, trying for some bravado.

“As you wish,” Crowley sneered, removing the glasses to glare properly at the other man. “You’ve been harboring my young cousin and ward, and helping him deceive both myself and my aunt. _And_ you’ve interfered with my attempts to court a certain young lady, through yet more shameful deception. I’ll not be made a fool of! And where is Newton? I know he’s cowering somewhere here in your shop.”

The whole time Crowley spoke, he kept moving toward Aziraphale, who resolutely backed away in tandem with each step forward that Crowley took. Finally Aziraphale stopped.

“Now see here, Lord Crowley, this is my establishment. I shall thank you to--”

“To _nothing_ ,” Crowley finished for him, his anger rising at this last bit of impudence. “You will not ask anything of me until you explain your outrageous actions.”

Crowley advanced further toward Aziraphale, closing the space between them until the merchant retreated once more and found himself backed nearly against a bookshelf. 

“L-look here, Lord Crowley,” Fell stammered, dismayed at being cornered. “If you would just listen…” he trailed off, his eyes darting about as if he were hoping for someone to rescue him. 

“Yesss?” Crowley hissed.

“Oh dear,” Fell managed. Crowley’s amber eyes bore into him, and he was reminded of a book he’d once read on snakes, how certain species could hypnotize their prey. His fingers fumbled together worriedly. 

“Blast it, man, you wanted to explain yourself. Speak!” Crowley grasped hold of Fell’s shirt and pressed him firmly back against the shelf. 

At this aggression, Fell simply stared at Crowley in bewilderment and shock, mouth open yet no intelligible words issuing forth. “I, that is, oh Heavens…” he finished weakly.

Crowley grew hot, as both temper and desire battled each other. He could feel Fell’s muscled chest under his shirt as he held fast, realizing the man could undoubtedly best him if they came to blows. Yet his beautiful blue eyes were wide with dismay, even as he allowed himself to be manhandled by the baron. How could someone be so strong yet so soft at the same time? 

Crowley was intensely aware of the heat between them, noticing how Fell’s neck glistened, and how his chest heaved under him. For one wild moment, Crowley couldn’t decide whether to give in to the urge to slap the man or crush his mouth upon his. Either would silence his nervous stammering.

He loosened his grip on Fell’s shirt ever so slightly, as if to release him and move away. It would be the prudent course of action, to be sure. 

As if perceiving Crowley’s intent to return to civility, Fell’s expression softened in relief, his lips parting in a sigh. And yet his half-hooded blue eyes reflected something more than relief as they scanned Crowley’s face. The look was not lost on the baron. His eyes wandered downward to note the tenting of the man’s trousers, which reflected the treacherous ache of his own cock. The baron’s mouth twitched in the hint of a smirk. _So…_

Prudence be damned, thought Crowley, and tightened his grip on Fell’s clothing once again, pushing him firmly against the side of the book shelf. Aziraphale gasped.

“This should cease your prattling.” 

And then, against all reason, Crowley pressed his mouth urgently against those full, parted lips. Fell tensed for a moment, feebly pushing back against him. Crowley began to panic. What had he done? 

But then he felt the merchant’s body become pliant under his, and Crowley explored Fell’s mouth, gratified when he began to kiss him back. Gently but insistently, Crowley worked his tongue past his lips. He tasted of tea and sugar. Crowley kept one hand on Fell’s chest, still gently pressing against it despite there no longer being a need, and he could feel his heart hammering in excitement against his open palm. His other hand wandered downward and around to graze the man’s hip and grasp it. Aziraphale melted against him now, returning the kiss passionately and even placing his hands gently around Crowley’s waist. He moaned softly under Crowley’s ministrations. 

Finally Crowley ended it with a last tiny kiss on Fell’s lower lip, then pulled back, regarding the bookseller. He waited for a cry of indignation but it did not come. Fell’s blue eyes were glazed and he stared back at Crowley in dazed puzzlement. He was beautiful, his face flushed and his soft feather-white hair mussed in a halo about his head. 

And then, the moment was abruptly ruined with the sound of a great many books toppling from one of the shelves, crashing to the floor, followed by a muffled “ _ouch!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Sir Roger de Coverley was a popular dance with which to end a Regency ball.


	4. Dashed Hopes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bookshop gets a little crowded, and there is sad wanking.
> 
> Again, I realize I'm taking FOREVER to update, so thanks for sticking with me! And once again, thanks to my incredible beta reader, TawnyOwl95!

The passion of the moment was lost as Crowley whipped his head around toward the sound of crashing books. Aziraphale still felt flushed and a bit disoriented, having emerged from their kiss slowly as if from a deep pool. His lips still held the taste of Crowley’s mouth, and his mind reeled from the fact that one moment the angry baron had been shouting at him, manhandling him, and the next moment he’d found himself pressed against a bookshelf and as close to being ravished as he’d ever come. 

Crowley’s grip loosened now, and Aziraphale willed himself to the present moment, and the sound of his precious books falling. 

The source of the disturbance was Newt, of course. He’d been hiding amongst the shelves and the young man  _ did _ have a tendency to topple things. 

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale managed, hoping he didn’t sound as utterly discombobulated as he felt. “Er, I hope my books are not damaged. That is undoubtedly my, er, new assistant. I hadn’t realized he was here,” he said desperately. Perhaps he could give Newt a moment to escape.

But then an awful thought occurred to Aziraphale. How much had Newt seen? And worse, had he just ruined several of his prized volumes? 

The bookseller straightened his clothing and smoothed his hair back reflexively. He looked at Crowley, whose expression of general displeasure had returned to his face, along with a furrowed brow. Aziraphale realized that he must be even more fearful than himself that they had been spied in the throes of passion. For two men to be seen together in a kiss or an embrace would be damaging to his reputation at best, utter ruination at the worst. The same held for Aziraphale, to be sure, but people were not quite as concerned about a bookseller as an aristocrat. 

Crowley threw Aziraphale a sharp look. “Your  _ books _ ,” he said incredulously, his mouth twitching a bit at the absurdity. “ _ That’s _ what concerns you?”

“I’ll have you know I have many rare first editions,” Aziraphale huffed.

Crowley snorted in derision. “Perhaps we should worry more about what my young cousin is doing lurking in your bookshelves. May I assume he is the, ah,  _ new assistant _ of whom you speak? Newt, you may come out now that you’ve destroyed half of Mr. Fell’s collection.”

A tousled head peered out from behind a shelf, and the rest of him quickly followed. He was as rumpled and anxious as usual.

“Oh! Hello, sir,” Newt sputtered. “I just--oh, Mr. Aziraphale. I tried to keep that great big one from falling, truly I did. But I heard the shouting from my guardian--sorry, sir,” he added, nodding to Crowley, “and I thought—that is, I was worried…and then I wasn’t paying attention and I bumped into the bookshelf.”

“It’s all right, my boy,” said Aziraphale with a strained smile, holding up his hands in a calming gesture. “I’m sure you made a valiant effort.” He approached the small pile of fallen books and bent to pick up the biggest of the volumes. It appeared undamaged.

Crowley couldn’t help but note the luscious swell of Aziraphale’s behind as he bent over. He quickly glanced away before any evidence of his lustful thoughts appeared under his trousers.

The door burst open just as Aziraphale had picked up the last of the fallen volumes and stacked them on a chair. Aziraphale huffed audibly. The shop was quickly descending into chaos. When  _ would _ he remember to actually lock the door, rather than just turn the sign? 

It was Anathema. She breezed in with apologies and chatter before even noticing who was in the shop. 

The three men froze in place almost comically, each wide eyed and inwardly panicking for different reasons. 

Anathema had picked up a new novel called  _ Emma _ from Aziraphale’s display table near the front door. She paged through it a bit as she spoke.

“Oh, Mr. Fell,” she said. “I just escaped my mother. She’s been holding me hostage all day, except for when she went to visit the Crowleys, and even then she left-- _ oh! _ ”

She’d glanced up from her book and suddenly noticed Lord Crowley standing there with Aziraphale and Newt. She barely managed to suppress a gasp. The situation was awkward, to say the least. She had hoped to find Mr. Fell alone in the shop. 

Crowley looked from Aziraphale to Anathema. Anathema looked from Crowley to Newt. Aziraphale looked from Anathema to Newt and everyone in the room was frozen. Then all eyes turned on Crowley to see how he would react. 

The baron’s eyes narrowed.  _ So, _ Miss Device had rushed to the shop to meet with Fell. They were obviously infatuated with each other, if she was running about the streets of Soho unaccompanied just to sneak into his shop. He was surprised to find his chest aching at the thought. Something plummeted inside him. Dashed hopes? He’d been infatuated. Stupidly infatuated. When would he learn? 

“Miss Device,” he said, quickly donning his sun spectacles and nodding curtly. “I shall make my excuses now. I would not want to interfere in  _ matters of the heart, _ ” he sneered. He did not notice the confused glances between the other three. He turned and raised an eyebrow at Newt and that was enough to prompt the boy into scurrying over to join his guardian. Newt cast a desperate, furtive look at Anathema before trailing after his guardian.

Crowley stormed down the street, which was busy with shoppers at the moment. Newt tagging behind in silence, not daring to say a word. Crowley simply glowered behind the safety of his spectacles, staring ahead as passersby scurried out of his way. 

Why had he thought Fell might share Crowley’s desires? Still, he could not have mistaken the man’s physical response to his seductions. Perhaps he was equally attracted to both men and women? It was possible. Or, like Bea, he was seeking the security of his future by taking a wealthy wife. Crowley could hardly blame the man, he was a mere merchant, the youngest of three brothers. Gabriel had inherited the family fortune, after all.

But none of this relieved the ache in his chest and his belly. He’d taken a fancy once again to a man he could not have, and now he would fail his family as well. There would be no wealthy wife, no secure future for Bea or for Newt, and the lad had not precisely flourished under Crowley’s guardianship.

And thinking of Newt, could he really blame the lad for running off after that meeting with Gabriel and Sandalphon Fell? Or for hiding out in a bookshop after incurring his anger? 

Crowley agonized as they walked. How could he have been so stupid? What was he thinking, one minute demanding an explanation for Fell’s outrageous behavior, and the next pressing him against a bookshelf and kissing him to distraction?

If Fell breathed a word of Crowley’s attempted seduction, his entire reputation would be ruined and there would be a stain on the family name. He envisioned himself abdicating it all, selling the estate and running off to the continent. He’d heard the French were, while not entirely sympathetic to men with his tendencies, they at least did not prosecute them as criminals. 

But no, he was trapped. Trapped with his debt and his family obligations. He had to think about Bea and Newt, who he realized had been nervously jabbering apologies and explanations at him for many minutes now. 

While Crowley had been ruminating, they had finally arrived at the town house.

He drew Newt aside and really looked at the boy for the first time since he’d dragged him from Fell’s shop. Newt’s misery and nervousness showed plainly in his face. Crowley took in a breath and let it out, as if trying to release some of his own anger before speaking. He was fond of Newt, exasperating though he was. And then something occurred to him. How much had Newt known of Aziraphale and Anathema’s affection for one another? Had they been trysting in the bookshop for some time now? He willed his voice to remain even.

“Newt. You have caused much mischief, but I can hardly blame you for not wishing to return to assist Reverend Fell at the church. Your aunt may have a different view of the matter. Somehow we shall get it sorted, though the clergy may not be the path for you.” 

Crowley offered the barest hint of a smile and then grew stern again. “ But I must know one thing. Did you know Miss Device and Mr. Fell were courting in secret? Have you seen them together at Fell’s shop before? Tell me the truth.”

Newt’s mouth dropped open. “Ah, Mr. Fell and Miss Device? N-no. No, I didn’t know there was anything between them. Honestly, sir!”

Crowley did not have the energy to interrogate him further. “Very well. Go upstairs to your room and try not to break anything along the way. I feel...unwell and I shall retire to my own room until dinner.”

“Th--thank you, sir,” Newt stammered, and dashed upstairs. Crowley did not see the expression of utter relief on Newt’s face as he left.

Crowley retired to his chambers with orders to Eric that he was not to be disturbed on any account.

He drew the drapes so that although the afternoon sunlight threatened to stream into his room, it was dark enough to sleep away his troubles for a few hours. He got undressed and crawled into bed, then drew the covers up and closed his eyes. 

His head swam with bits and pieces of the day--the tortuous visit with the elder Fell brothers, his rage at learning he’d been played for a fool, and then Anathema bursting in, once again reminding Crowley that he would never have what he most desired. And now it seemed pointless for him to even pursue Miss Device in hopes of a loveless marriage for money. He thought of Gabriel’s words, that he had encouraged Aziraphale to court Miss Device and that she often frequented his bookshop. Of course she was attracted to him, with his down of white-gold hair and eyes the color of the sky. 

It seemed certain they would be a match, despite Aziraphale’s standing as the younger brother. One thing was certain, he had no desire to stay in London for the remainder of the Season. 

Crowley sighed and tried to get comfortable, fluffing his pillow and arranging his long limbs so that his feet were tucked in. But, his thoughts drifted back to the shopkeeper.

Aziraphale’s body  _ had _ responded to Crowley’s advances. He thought of their kiss, the feel of Aziraphale’s lips. His body, strong and soft at the same time, yielding under Crowley’s touch. He’d definitely felt Aziraphale’s arousal. 

He could feel the ghost of his own arousal now as he lay naked under the cover. Crowley tried to ignore it, rolling onto his side and closing his eyes. But it was insistent. Try as he might to get the memory of Aziraphale’s warm lips and pliant body under him, his cock was not cooperating. He thought of what those rosy lips would be like wrapped around him. Would he take him all the way into his mouth? Would he moan as Crowley came down his throat, as he’d moaned when Crowley had merely kissed him? He was throbbing now, hard as wood. 

Crowley sighed as he rolled onto his back and took himself in hand, grasping his cock firmly and giving it a few strokes. He swept his hand over the head, spreading the milky beads of moisture down over his shaft. He gripped himself more firmly and began stroking in earnest. Crowley thought of how he’d pressed himself against Aziraphale and felt his hardness. He imagined himself grinding against him now. What would it feel like to have Aziraphale’s hands around him instead of his own? Or perhaps having Aziraphale warm his bed, Crowley sinking his length into that shapely arse as Aziraphale moaned and squirmed underneath him…

Crowley came suddenly and violently, his hot seed spilling over his hand and stomach as he forced himself not to cry out. When he was spent, he lay there for a moment before reluctantly rising and cleaning himself as best he could with the cloth and basin that was situated near his bed. Then he crawled back under the covers and finally managed to drift off to sleep.

Crowley woke several hours later to dim light streaming in through the windows. He was confused for a moment before recalling the day’s events, ending with his tossing off and then falling into a sound sleep.

He groaned.  _ Dinner _ . Bea would be expecting to dine with him and Newt. He had absolutely no desire to chat about Mr. A.Z. Fell or Miss Device with Bea right now. He was uncharacteristically hungry but the very idea of such a talk would certainly put him off his food. What he needed now was a good solid meal, extraordinary amounts of alcohol, and a bit of fun. He grinned as the perfect solution came to him.

He would visit the Brimstone. Hastur and Ligur never failed to cheer him up and take care of his needs--at least, his food, drink and friendship needs. He used the basin to clean up a bit before dressing hurriedly. Then he called for Eric and told him to bring the carriage round. 

He’d hoped to make a clean escape of it, but after he made his way downstairs and nearly to the front door, he was waylaid by Bea. She wore her customary glower. 

“I see you trying to slither out the door, Anthony. Newt informed me of what transpired at Mr. Fell’s shop. He told me he overheard you causing a scene. You’ve the temper of a common cur, Anthony, and it would greatly behoove you to--”

“Bea, enough!” Crowley barked. Then he tried to soften his tone. “Auntie, I’ve made my decision. We’re returning to Tadfield as soon as possible. I have no reason to stay and torture myself with more dinners, balls and dances.”

Bea’s expression darkened. “Don’t be ridiculous, Anthony. We’ve let this town house through the end of the Season.”

“You may stay if you wish. I’m sure you and Newt will have a lovely time.” The carriage was waiting and he’d had more than enough talk of courtship, dances and bookshops. He edged his way to the door. But Bea was not going to give up, confound it.

“Nephew, when will you learn to behave like a responsible landowner?

“It is for  _ precisely _ that reason I wish to return to Tadfield Manor,” he replied sharply. “It’s gone neglected long enough.” This was largely a lie, since he had left matters in the hands of his estate manager. 

Bea snorted. “Fiddle faddle. You simply wish to run away from your responsibilities and commitments once again.”

Crowley strove to keep his tone civil. “Auntie, I am done, and I’m going out for the evening. Have a lovely dinner with Newt.”

“A lovely dinner indeed!” she said, her anger obvious in her tone. “And so you’ve settled on the matter. You plan to simply abandon all attempts at finding a wife this season. Very well, then. I presume you’re off to that disreputable alehouse of which you’re so fond. I imagine you’ll be stumbling back in the door at some Godless hour of the night, drunk as an emperor.” 

Crowley was halfway out the door when she shouted her parting words. “Childish cur!”

“Hopeless nag,” he retorted. 

But this time there was no humor in their banter. 

His stomach churned at Bea’s justified distress. He knew she must fear for their future and he’d dashed her hopes. But he must make his escape, just for one night, to think of something else besides booksellers, courtships and his errant ward. 

He would clear his head or muddle it further with wine and ale, if need be. He breathed a sigh of relief as he stepped out into the cool night to the awaiting carriage. He was off to the Brimstone.


End file.
